A Lady Need Only Look The Part
by something someone said
Summary: A library is the perfect place to get the Madame's memories going, or in the case of a certain shinigami, make new ones.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Kuroshitsuji. This is just for fun.

**A/N: **Take this as Grell x Angelina if you will, friendship or whatever have you.

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**A Lady Need Only Look the Part**

The pages had been worn down from years of use, yellowing and crinkling at the slightest touch. Still, she turned the pages effortlessly with a hint of elegance, as practiced and feminine as the hobby of reading dictated.

The library of Madame Red's was posh and as embellished as anything of that era. The carpets had long since been replaced by the lady's preference for exotic Chinese rugs, tapestries and curtains. The books made up an admiral presence, but they were only secondary to the décor- all dyed in crimson. She blended in with the room, as if she were just another shade of the color.

She arrived at the page she was looking for at ease, holding it gingerly, as if it were a memory that would crumble to dust at too firm an inquisition.

"Little Red Riding Hood?" She flinched at the voice, a subdued crackle of torn paper alerting her of the damage she had done to the book, a rip and wound on her soul.

"Grell!" A hint of anger laced her tone, but even more so of regret.

The shinigami continued on, as if he were not aware of his transgression. "I've lost interest in the Grimm Brothers. Actually, I never had any interest in them. I don't know what makes them so interesting to people nowadays. I probably caused a few of those incidents myself and yet they're reduced to mere fantasies to you people." He half-humored, half-depressed himself.

"It was my favorite." She looked to Grell, a bit shocked he had taken on his 'true' form. His teeth reminded her of the wolf's teeth. His eyes the wolf's eyes. His nature as fickle as a killer in a granny suit. How could she say she was any different?

He pushed on. "I don't think I've ever had a favorite book. There's too much to choose from." She looked around her library, too much? She was sure he had time to read them all. "No, not these kinds of books. Oh, I could never explain it to you." He pouted as a petulant child. "A lady need only look the part and never explain it!"

"If it's the issue of feminism I think I have the upper hand." She reproached him, eager for a haughty argument.

"And why would that be?" Grell's petulance reached a new level.

She brought a hand to her mouth and chuckled, as delicate as it was superficial. "Oh come now. You are so very clumsy, even when you aren't acting like you are. My refinement has been embedded in me since birth- it's my birthright- and it's as polished as a surgeon's hands." She flicked her wrist in the air, her lissome fingers illustrating her point. "Honestly, if it weren't for me you would just a make a mess of those-"

"Madame Red, you run your mouth." Grell chimed in, not nearly as insulted as giddy, as if he were receiving an accolade.

"Ah right. You wreak havoc on my refinement." By now the pleasure of talking had obliterated her nostalgic mood. She had become the woman everyone knew her as. It was her greatest asset in English society, her _granny suit_.

"Madame, I wreak havoc on anything!" He moved in a show of dominance until their noses were touching, the intimacy making her breath hitch, her heart swing to the destitution of her soul. She looked at him, saw death, and realized she didn't care. How could she? She wasn't any different.

"Grell." She leaned in closer, aching need empowering her, lost passion crusading for deviance. What would he taste like? Death? Sin? She had tasted all those before. Perhaps something abysmal. Perhaps something familiar. Her lips felt a sensation.

However, she did not receive her taste of death as the shinigami toppled over her on account of his lack of composure. A mass of books were soon to bury the two in obsolete-coital rubble.

She could only let out a sigh of laughter that resounded in her lungs, her body caught under an embrace she had long forgotten about- that of another's.

"You are so very clumsy!"

He did not apologize for anything as he helped her up, his grasp as impersonal as always. She hardly had time to notice from her hiccupping-laughter.

"Now my hair shall be a mess for the rest of the evening." She jested when she had regained her consonance. "A lady need only look the part, right?"

"Have a seat Madame." Grell gestured to a plush seat and she obliged. No sooner had she taken her seat than the other ran his strong but dainty fingers through her hair, his manly but womanly touch. In a world where gender lines were so easily defined she found his ambiguousness refreshing and dangerous. Ludicrous and indefinable. Absolutely nebulous. She giggled to herself.

"Hold still." He said with a domineering verbatim that did not surprise as much as excite her. So this was the real Grell. Direct, no-nonsense in times of necessity. Oh no, no, that's silly, she thought, there's no such thing as the real Grell. He's just a fantasy of mine, my own little halfpence London fairytale. She tried to retain the manners of a lady in the rush of excitement with her playmate and partner in crime, concentrating on the tickle of his fingers treading across her scalp.

Of course, she did not sit still for long. "You really must find a favorite book Grell! I love Little Red and my absolute favorite scene- I'm sure you'll like, no you live it!- is when the hunter cuts the wolf open." It was a conversation she often brought up in parties, her listeners joining the wave of pleasure that was her tone. "Splitting open the epidermis with an axe, extracting that girl and her grandmother covered in ooze, all the while blood drenching everything! Such precision! Its lewdness fascinates me to no end." She was sure she had gone stark mad.

She needed a change in expression, it wasn't even dark yet. "Be sure to make it right! Any untidy strand and your ass will pay for it!"

Grell's hands continued their elegant assault at managing her hair. She sat there for a long time after his fingertips had left. She found herself wanting more, conjuring up the titillating sensation that was as close to sensuality as she had come to in a long time. In the placid quietness she had finally calmed down, eased into her nostalgia like a second home, like a real home. She remembered the real reason she liked Little Red Riding Hood so much. Her sister had read it to her.

"Grell, promise me you'll find a favorite book." She said somberly, remembering the petty covenants she had made as a child.

She turned to him for the answer and found he had chosen to disguise himself as her inefficient butler again.

"Yes Madame." He bowed, with every bit of fallacy hanging off his tongue.

"You really are clumsy at acting the part of a butler!" Loud and unobsequious, just her style.

As she took her leave she thought she saw the tiniest hint of sorrow in his expression. However, she could have just as well made the whole thing up.

The pages are worn down from years of use, yellowing and crinkling at the slightest touch. Still, he turns the pages effortlessly with a hint of elegance, as practiced and feminine as the hobby of reading dictates.

The Shinigami Library is timeless and uniform. Its grandeur comes secondary to its massive collection, spanning the history of mankind, past, present and future. Grell Sutcliff's fabulous red hair stands out in the bleak, unchanging whiteness.

He arrives at the page he was looking for at ease, holding it gingerly, as if it is a memory that would crumble to dust at too firm an inquisition.

"_Little Red Riding Hood?"_

The memory plays out like a roll of celluloid as his wolf grin emerges.

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END

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**A/N: **Lurking fandomsecrets will make you watch anime you never planned on watching, make you write fanfics you never planned on writing.


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